


Open Waters

by Absolute_Trash_Fire



Category: South Park
Genre: Don't speak to me or my shitty tags ever again, F/F, Genderswap, Groping, Kissing, Lesbian Sex, Lesbins, Pirates, Tit Play, Tribbing, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, cannabis consumption, idk man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Absolute_Trash_Fire/pseuds/Absolute_Trash_Fire
Summary: It's the Golden Age of piracy, and entrepreneurs from every continent are risking it all to join the global market. And conferences are where progress can be sped up. Tweek Marie Tweak, the face of Tweek & Co. Coffee, is sent alone to represent the up-and-coming company at the Accra International Trade Conference. The thing is... When the bourgeoisie go as they please, there are often pirates ready to see that wealth for themselves. And, y'know, walk away with every shilling they can find.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	Open Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the stand-in chapter for the OMGTWC update. Aaaaaa, idk. Should have the next chapter ready by next Saturday, had to shift things around, blah, blah, blah...
> 
> Not entirely sure how well genderswapped Creek fics are received, so I hope y'all don't mind a slight change of pace on this one n.n' Enjoy(?)

_Represent the company_ , they said.

_Be the face of Tweak & Co. Coffee _, they said.

_You’ll be fine at an international trade conference_ , they said.

_Nowhere_ in that description did Regina and Edward Tweak mention being attacked by a pirate ship. ...Well, actually _two_ pirate ships, if we’re fussing over details.

Two boats--on one side, a massive, dark galleon, on the other, a dingy-looking schooner. They circle around the poorly-equipped brig like vultures, closing in with each pass. Tweek stands in the middle of the chaos, unsure of what to do. There are merchants trying to load the lifeboats with their wares, making loud, frantic threats to _kill anyone_ that tries to climb in with their furniture, textiles, and spices. Nobles disappear below the deck, shrieking with terror as they lock themselves into their rooms. Tradespeople and a handful of performers fight over the few weapons at their disposal, and several stragglers, like Tweek, just mill around, too shocked to do anything.

Then the pirates board their boat, and the situation escalates. From the schooner, grimy men scramble onto the ship, leaping from planks and masts, skulking around with beat-up swords and questionable-looking muskets. They grab at people roughly--beating and slicing the men, dragging the women back to their boat. Tweek utters a broken shriek of terror when two men--one reeking of sweat and booze, with a mouth full of blackened teeth, the other with one glass eye, and skin riddled with the necrotic traces of prolonged scurvy--grip her upper arms painfully tight and begin hauling her off the ship.

The pirates from the galleon land; they seem significantly less filthy, but also much more… Dangerous. They brandish cutlasses and scimitars, throw knives and axes, and make a show of pointing blunderbusses from person to person. Both wealthy individuals and the disease-ridden crew from the other boat get caught in the crossfire. Those strangers, with their unusually clean clothing and fancy weaponry, make quick work of rounding up the passengers from below the deck. They reclaim the almost-kidnapped women, and haul stubborn merchants out of the lifeboats. Some of the gangrene-infested pirates try to keep their hostages, and fights continue to break out until a tall stranger hops down from a plank protruding from the galleon.

She walks slowly, thumbs hooked in her pockets, while she surveys the people still running back and forth. Tweek is almost off of the boat--she clings to the railing of a set of stairs as the pair of men fight to drag her back to the schooner. Then the woman flicks the brim of her tricorn hat, points the flintlock pistol on her belt skyward, and fires. 

Everyone immediately freezes. “Now that I have your attention- _Ahem_. Attendees for the Accra International Conference, remain where you are, or I’ll cut your feet off. Rats from the dinghy on the northwestern end, get back on your damn boat before I blow your heads off,” she announces, gaze drifting over the varying crowds.

It takes a moment, but pirates and passengers alike begin moving. Some of the nobles and performers do as they’re told, and sit on the ground, pale in the face and trembling. Some of the pirates make a mad dash for their own boat. However, some of those raiders guffaw, and try to stick around, some of those merchants stubbornly try to lower the lifeboats anyway. In under a minute, it’s made clear that those threats were deathly serious. Guns fire, and blood splatters all over the walls, doorways, and main deck. Men and women are dragged away from their wares and pinned down; cutlasses and axes are lifted high in the air before they’re swung down, and half a dozen people are suddenly losing their feet at the ankle. Now it’s a desperate scramble for people to correct their own actions. Pirates retreat now that their lives are on the line. Merchants leap back onto the boat and sit down, shaking violently. Everyone is silent again. Well, save for the two men who are still _subtly_ trying to kidnap Tweek. The strange woman’s eyes flick to them, and she marches over with long strides, boots thudding evenly against the deck.

“Are you deaf?” she asks, towering over the man with broken, rotting teeth, “Or are you just that stupid?” she adds, seizing the front of the one-eyed man’s shirt. “Release her. Get back on your disgusting boat. Now, or I’ll slit your throats and throw you to the sharks.”

One of the pair takes his leave, and tries to run back to the schooner. He trips mid-jump as he crosses a plank, and ends up slapping against the side of his own ship before falling into the churning waves below. The other stands up taller, and grips his sword. Without blinking, the woman slits his throat, elbows him in the stomach, and shoves the idiotic buccaneer off the side of the boat. Tweek squeaks, now drenched in the blood of a stranger, and sits on the bottom step of the staircase she’d just been clinging to.

“For those of you aristocratic types--give us your name, the company you work for, and a person to contact in regards to a ransom,” she demands while looking at her own crew members.

It’s organized now--more men and women come from the galleon with medical equipment, blank parchments, and more than a dozen carrier pigeons. Severed limbs are being cauterized; the smell of sizzling flesh accompanies the sound of agonized screaming, and wealthy people from all over the world tremulously utter their information while held at knifepoint. Tweek finds herself face-to-face with a blond young man.

“Awright missy, where are y’from?” His accent sounds strange--Cockney with the faintest tinge of some Carribean dialect. 

“Birmingham, the northern end of town,” she whispers, shaking violently.

“Mhm. Why are you at’ending a big ol’ fancy con’frence in Ghana?”

“I’m representing Tweak & Co. Coffee. My parents were hoping to find new sources for imports.”

“And your name?”

“Tweek Marie Tweak. My parents are Regina and Edward Tweak. You’ll probably find them in Liverpool this time of year,” 

The blonde man scribbles something on his parchment. “Any particular message you’d like to send?”

Tweek thinks on it for a moment.

_I don’t think words will make much of a difference._

She shakes her head, and watches as the Cockney-Caribbean pirate rolls up the paper, ties it to the leg of a pigeon with a blue ribbon around its neck, and sends the bird off. Several other pigeons take flight, and the waiting begins.

Over the next couple of days, little row boats make a clumsy journey up to the galleon. They only carry guards, family members, and acquaintances. Military presence would trigger an immediate slaughter of every passenger, as per the intimidating woman’s instructions. Truly astounding sums of money are traded for the safety of each bedraggled aristocrat, and the number of hostages shrinks until there is only Tweek left. 

And a little boat does not come for her. Instead, a very confused-looking bird with speckled wings practically falls out of the sky. It squawks and shakes its leg until a crumpled note flutters to the deck, and the ‘messenger’ takes off.

The blonde man Tweek had spoken to before, Barnaby Stevens, unfolds the note, and several other pirates gather around. He begins to read said note as the crew finishes stealing the last of the goods off this merchant ship, and the Tweek listens closely.

“Dear Marauders of the Spectral Seas, we have received your message, and discussed it at length. Currently, we cannot afford to spare the money you’ve demanded. If you are willing to lower that sum, we will communicate further. If not, the events that follow are out of our hands. Best Regards, Regina and Edward Tweak, founders of Tweak & Co. Coffee.”

Tweek’s heart drops, and her entire body goes cold. 

_I’m going to die because my parents won’t cough up five pounds’ worth of gold coins(roughly $2,000 USD)._

That sum was actually the lowest demand out of all the other passengers, too. Most everyone else was held for ransoms of _hundreds_ of pounds. Swinging low for an up-and-coming business seemed logical. And that was _still_ pointless.

The tall woman, who had turned out to be the damn _captain_ , takes the note from Barnaby and reads it over again. She glances between Regina’s neat handwriting and Tweek’s pale, stricken expression. Tears begin streaming down the woman’s cheeks, and she hunches her shoulders. “Please don’t kill me,” Tweek whispers hoarsely.

The Captain, _Madame Cristine Tucker_ , hums to herself. “I’ll consider it.”

Before Tweek can ask what that means, the woman hooks an arm around the last hostage’s waist, and tosses the panicking woman over her shoulder. With unnerving ease, she marches along the plank protruding from the merchant ship and hops onto the deck of the galleon. Tweek trembles and bites her lip, trying to contain the screams of terror that are currently trapped in her throat. Cristine glances at the various members of her crew, and the thoroughly-emptied ship still bound along their own. “Release that thing, and burn it.”

Various rigs are loosened while pirates pour oil on the deck of the once-lavish brig, and a match is struck. Tweek watches the ship go down in flames as she’s carried through a darkened doorway.

It’s pitch-black. The Captain locks the door, sets her down, and wanders deeper into the room. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, a flame sparks, and Tweek watches Cristine light candles with a bit of flint and steel. When the room is filled with a gentle, warm glow, the shaken girl surveys her surroundings.

Cluttered, but kept neat enough, and filled with oddities from around the world. Statues, weaponry, treasure of every sort… Golden and silver candlesticks sit on almost every surface. Painted privacy screens are folded and scattered about. Oil paintings, wood carvings, equipment for surveying the night sky, and various flags are crammed wherever they’ll fit. Chests and cabinets overflowing with clothing, books, statues, and timepieces litter various corners. 

...It’s all too much to take in. Tweek squeaks when a warm hand lands on her shoulder, and whips around to face her supposed captor.

“...Do your parents leave you for dead often?” Cristine asks, oddly quiet.

_The time they forgot to grab me when the house caught on fire, teaching me how to ride horses on a deranged mare, that time I fell off a dock and got trapped in fishing net, ‘accidentally’ locking me out of a carriage in the slums of Birmingham…_

Tweek nods. She jumps when calloused fingers brush dirty strands of blonde hair behind her ear, and blushes when the Captain leans down until they make eye contact. It seems like the woman is thinking _something_ , though Tweek can’t tell what.

Cristine stands up, runs her fingers along the brim of her hat idly, and sighs. “Let’s get you something to eat while Claire runs a warm bath.”

_...Bath? In the middle of the ocean? With salt water…? That can’t be right._

The taller woman leaves, and the door is left unlocked. It’s not like there are many places for Tweek to go, anyway. When she returns, she’s followed by a brown-haired woman and a thin, clean-shaven man towing an empty basin made of thin metal. The pair of strangers set the ‘bath’ against a wall, and leave again, presumably to heat up some kind of liquid. Cristine sets a bag on the small dining table in the middle of her quarters, and starts rifling through dishware.

“...Why are you being nice to me?” Tweek finally asks.

“Your parents abandoned you. You’re stuck with strangers. Life’s already been pretty damn cruel--there’s no point in adding to that,” the Captain replies, pulling fruit, dried meats, and semi-fresh bread out of the sack. She scoots a chair out and gestures at the empty seat.

After days of being sunburned on the deck of an emptying ship, eating hardtack, drinking grog, and being chafed by salty, blood-spattered clothing, a cushioned chair with real food seems like heaven. When Cristine pulls a little ceramic container of butter out and starts cutting bread, the blonde drops into the chair, speechless in her relief. 

Buttered bread, oranges, blueberries, and rabbit jerky. In itself, this is not a fancy meal. The fact that it’s being served _two hundred nautical miles_ from the nearest shoreline is what makes it special. Adding to this feeling of opulence, Cristine begins pouring wine into a little chalice, and slides the silver cup over to Tweek, who thanks her quietly.

_This has to be a dream._

Tweek Tweak, the heiress to a barely-established, _struggling_ trading company, is eating fruits and drinking wine in company with a pirate captain. Said captain has an even stranger accent than the Barnaby fellow.

It’s a mess of Latin-American speech patterns with the rounded pronunciation of a Hispanolian dialect, and the barest tinge of British slang. At several points, Tweek could have sworn she’d heard the woman speak English, Spanish, and several varieties of French. “Where are you from?” the blonde asks timidly.

“Everywhere,” is all Cristine says, digging into her own food without any utensils. After a tense pause, the Captain begrudgingly elaborates. “I was born in Peru and grew up in Haiti. I’ve travelled a lot since then.”

Tweek studies her tanned skin, the black hair curling out from her hat, the many scars latticing her forearms, her loose white shirt, and… A pair of intense jade green eyes, which are filled with an expression of suspicion.

“What’re you staring at?” the woman asks, a tad snippy.

“Ah- Nothing. I mean-” Tweek stumbles over her words, flushing bright red. “I’ve never seen a woman wear trousers. I’ve never met a woman who is as well-travelled as you. Just gawking I suppose. Sorry.” She takes a big bite of bread to shut herself up, hands shaking slightly.

Cristine nods slowly, relaxing a little. There’s a knock at the door, and the noirette stands with a huff. The pair from before, briefly identified as Claire and Wendyl, each carry a large clay jar wrapped with thick fabric. Those jars, after the lids are popped off, are revealed to be full of steaming water. Tweek just stares as they dump the water into the basin that had been carried in earlier, awestruck.

_She wasn't kidding. A warm bath on a damn boat._

She quickly finishes her plate of food and waits, unsure of what to do. Christine is pushing a folding screen around until the basin has a makeshift wall on one side and a window on the other. After the tub and screen are properly set up, the noirette beckons to the shorter woman. Tweek scurries over, and can’t help the delighted grin that works its way onto her face. Cristine tilts her head, gives the blonde a once-over, and walks to the other side of the screen to pull up a chair. “Take your time,” she offers, stretching out.

With the silhouette of the Captain visible through the screen, Tweek meekly slips her shoes off. Then she immediately encounters a problem.

“Um, Captain Tucker?” She whispers this, face slowly heating up.

Cristine makes a vague sound of acknowledgement.

“I can’t… Uh. My corset.” Tweek can’t bring herself to say _I can’t reach the lacing on my clothing, so I can’t undress myself._

“Ah, right.” Without any teasing or derision, the noirette gets up and carefully guides the shorter woman to stand closer to the nearest candle. Off to the right, Tweek can see a mirror, and, by extension, a tall, intimidating woman with dextrous hands loosening her corset.

_Pure thoughts, Tweek. Keep pure thoughts._

She fidgets with the stained green fabric of her skirt, and shivers when the taller woman carefully sweeps delicate blonde hair away from the nape of her neck. The button to her shirt, positioned neatly above her shoulder blades is popped, and Tweek buries her burning face in her hands. Cristine gives the lacing one last tug, and steps back. “Do you think you’ll be able to get the rest?”

“Yes, thank you. For everything,” the blonde replies in a hushed voice. The Captain goes back to her chair, relaxed posture casting a shadow against the paper screen.

Tweek drops the corset, various layers of skirts, shirt _and_ undershirt, stockings, and however many _billion_ articles of clothing she was told to wear. Being able to breathe and move had never felt so pleasant. And the water felt even better.

_Is this what it feels like to be better-off than royalty?_

The blonde tugs a washcloth off the edge of the tub and starts scrubbing her skin. Beyond the windows, night has fallen, and the rhythmic sway of the ship fills her with tranquility. Then a strange smell fills the air. Musky, like the furs that fine French women would wrap around their shoulders, with sharp undertones. A little plume of smoke rises from above the spot where Cristine is sitting.

Trying for a casual approach, Tweek perks up. “What is that?”

With a muted exhalation, the taller woman replies. “Cannabis flower.”

_A woman who wears trousers, can fight with swords, carries a gun, and smokes. And she’s the captain of a ship, to top all that off!_

Tweek sinks into the water until she’s submerged up to her nose, lost in thought. She reaches up and releases her hair from its braided updo, before watching the blonde strands darken in the water. “Is it different from tobacco leaves?”

“Mhm. Very different.” Another exhalation, another odd-smelling plume of smoke.

The shorter woman sinks completely below the water to scrub at her scalp, gathering some courage before resurfacing. “Different how? ...Sorry, I’ve never really smoked anything.”

Cristine hums. “Tobacco is… Distracting. A little calming, but it doesn’t do much. This-” Tweek can vaguely see her raise some kind of pipe through the screen, “Quiets the mind, relaxes the body, all that.” It takes a moment for the noirette to catch on to Tweek’s passive-aggression. “Do you want to try some?”

Curling her knees to her chin in a vain attempt to retain _some_ modesty, the blonde nods before realizing a nod is not going to work as a response with a screen in the way. “Yes please,” she adds.

Cristine strides around the screen, politely looking at the wall behind Tweek’s head while dropping to kneel by the tub. She turns the pipe--a long, ornate thing with carved patterns and a worn mouthpiece--to face the shorter woman.

Tweek leans in, then laughs nervously. “I, um. I don’t know how-”

She watches, fascinated, as the noirette turns the pipe back toward herself. “You take this,” she taps the mouthpiece against her lower lip, “Put it in your mouth, and breathe in,” To demonstrate, Cristine takes a long drag, and the bowl glows faintly, “It’s already lit, just pull a little longer after I take the pipe. Keeps the smoke out of your throat.” When she finishes speaking, she exhales, and smoke billows off to the side. She turns the pipe back to the blonde.

Tweek does exactly as instructed, and keeps inhaling for a second after the taller woman lightly pulls the mouthpiece away. She holds it in until her lungs hurt, and lets the breath out, enraptured by the cloud that passes from from her own lips.

For a second, she’s fine. Then her throat burns and she starts coughing. Cristine smiles, brushing the wet hair out of Tweek’s face before leaving the tub. She returns with a leathery-looking bag; it takes a minute for the blonde to realize it’s a water skin, which she takes gratefully. “Thank-” _Cough_ , “You.”

Suddenly the room is brighter, and warmer. The sway of the ship feels more pronounced, and the bath water seems less like a tub of lukewarm liquid, and more like a cradling pool. 

“...Wow,” she finally murmurs, clearing her throat.

When Cristine tilts her head, Tweek briefly dips her face into the water again, trying to hide her embarrassment.

_The food was really good, and this bath is really good, and I feel really good, and she looks really good, and-_

With a gasp, the blonde raises her head from the bath, and giggles breathlessly. As the water ripples, she stares at her own hands, transfixed. The light plays against those little waves, highlights the metal rims of the tub, and makes her fingers gleam. It’s otherworldly, really. Colors are more pronounced, each movement is slightly blurred, and her skin feels exceptionally sensitive. “This is nice,” she comments absently. “Really nice.”

Cristine snorts. “The water’s going to get cold soon. I’ll get you a towel.”

Tweek nods and stretches her legs out, suddenly fine with this entire situation. Outside, the stars look beautiful, and she can’t help but smile when a fluffy length of fabric the size of a _blanket_ is left hanging over the screen. She clambers out of the tub, a tad clumsy, and starts drying herself off. For a moment, she glances up, and sees the mirror from before. She also makes eye contact with the noirette still sitting on the other side of the screen. Cristine immediately looks away, cheeks flushing slightly, and Tweek simply stares at her reflection. The towel feels softer than silk, the cool air is making goosebumps rise all over her body, and the Captain’s expression, even if she’d only seen it for a moment, makes her heart pound.

_I wonder how her hands would feel- No, never mind. Don’t let your thoughts go there._

Tweek wraps the massive towel around her shoulders, and walks out to peek at Cristine from behind the screen. “Do you have… I don’t know, a shirt, or something like that, I could borrow?” With a nod, the taller woman walks to a chest near her bed, and begins sifting through the mound of clothing. At this point, the blonde can’t be bothered to care about her own blatant staring. Combine the still-present hat with the shirt, dark trousers, and high boots, and you have a vision of beauty pulled out of the shorter woman’s wildest dreams.

Cristine notices the eyes glued to her, and returns with a button-up shirt that is entirely too big and small cotton shorts. She starts to say, “This is all I can find for now-” and stops abruptly. “What’s with all the staring, hm?”

Tweek pulls the towel tighter around herself, and says, without an ounce of hesitation: “You’re pretty.”

_So much for pure thoughts and self-control._

The noirette rolls her eyes. “And you’re not right in the head.” She hands the blonde her makeshift pajamas, and walks back to her spot on the other side of the screen.

“What do you mean, ‘not right in the head?’” the shorter woman asks, dropping the towel in favor of putting on warm clothing.

“You’re shaken up from the last couple of days, probably exhausted, you’ve just taken a pretty intense drag for your inexperience, and-” Cristine looks up at the blonde now standing in front of her, “And I don’t think you understand what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” Tweek asks, feigning innocence.

“Being a fool,” the Captain mutters tersely. “You didn’t even dry your hair,” she says, standing to retrieve the towel. When she starts gently working the towel over the shorter woman’s hair, she is startled by a soft laugh.

“I’m a fool for thinking you’re pretty?”

Cristine hands her the mostly-full waterskin before she continues to dry Tweek’s hair. “You know what I mean,” she grumbles while the shorter woman sips.

While she lightly runs a comb through the blonde’s damp locks, there’s only silence. Right when the taller woman’s discomfort becomes too much, right when she begins to pull the comb away, Tweek reaches out, and holds Cristine’s wrist. She carefully tugs the comb from the noirette’s fingers, drops it on the floor, and presses a delicate kiss to her palm. They just stare at each other, the Captain is trying to keep calm, and her ‘captive’ is desperately trying to communicate something with her eyes and that small gesture alone.

For the longest time, there had been one thing Tweek dreaded. One day, she would marry the son of some other business family. It wouldn’t matter if he was ugly, or rude, or stupid. He would propose, and court her, and they’d go through all the asinine steps leading up to marriage. The wedding would happen, she’d force a smile all the way down the aisle, and there would be… A consummation to follow. No choices. No consideration for her feelings. She’d just be stuck with a man, stuck with whatever mannerisms he had, stuck with his voice, his status, the _gross thing between his legs_ -

But now? Tweek can’t help but be thankful for her parents’ apathy. This never would have happened if she had been saved. The only question is whether Cristine would reciprocate.

“You should sleep,” the Captain finally says, hesitantly. 

Normally, this would be the point where the blonde backs out. Ordinarily, she’d let the tension fall flat, and simply do as she’s told. But the world is still bright, and warm, and the noirette’s gaze carries the barest traces of an addictive heat.

_This is happening._

“Then so should you,” the shorter woman murmurs, still holding onto Cristine’s hand.

With a sigh, the taller woman nudges Tweek in the direction of the bed, her warm fingers tracing circles along the shorter woman’s lower back. She pulls one of the canopy curtains aside, nodding at the pile of blankets and pillows within. 

Tweek doesn’t bother concealing her delight. She just crawls in, grinning so much it almost hurts, and watches Cristine’s back hungrily as the noirette sits on the edge of the bed. One boot hits the floor, then the other, and the Captain swings her legs up before inching further onto the mattress. The curtain closes, and Tweek blinks in sudden darkness. A hand lightly grips her jaw, and warm breath ghosts over her lips. “Are you sure?” Cristine asks, mostly a nicety at this point. This is met with a fervent nod.

It’s so very, _very_ delicate at first. Just a light brush of the taller woman’s chapped lips, the smell of smoke clinging to her hair and clothing. With a contented sigh, the blonde leans forward, resting her hands on Cristine’s shoulders. All it takes is a little more pressure, a brief swipe of tongue, and Tweek can taste wine, fruit, and the aftertaste of the flower they’d smoked. The noirette tugs the shorter woman into her lap, bands her arms around that tiny waist, tilts her head, and deepens the kiss. 

It’s dizzying--the heat of a woman's tongue in her mouth, the press of strong hands against her ribs contrasted by the cold traces of her still-damp hair. Cristine pulls away with smack, and the blonde carefully pushes that stupid hat off of her head. The rest of her black shoulder-length hair slips free, and Tweek feels like she must be in heaven. 

As the noirette peppers the woman in her lap’s throat with kisses, she urges the shorter woman to slide closer, until there is a surreal crush of breast-against breast. Calloused fingers card through blonde hair, and Tweek instinctively spreads her thighs with a pleased hum. 

Cristine presses her lips against the blonde’s ear and chuckles. “Enjoying yourself?”

This is met with a delirious chuckle and some frantic nodding. Her pale hand fumbles for the button on the Captain’s trousers. “These. Off,” she whispers before pressing another kiss to the corner of the noirette’s mouth.

For a moment, Tweek is eased onto the mattress and sits, mostly blind, while the taller woman tosses her clothes who-knows-where. Then, with little to no warning, the blonde finds herself shoved onto her back, thoroughly disoriented, but no less excited. An arm braces itself in the pillows above her head, and a wandering hand carefully feels around before thumbing at Tweek’s lower lip. 

Thumb, forefinger, middle finger--just the pads of these three digits tracing the seam of the lower woman’s lip until Tweek laps at them with a bubbly giggle. When she catches the tip of Cristine’s middle finger, she briefly sucks at it, and the noirette pauses before pushing the rest of the digit in. “Have you done this before?” she asks, mildly incredulous as the blonde curls her tongue along the taller woman’s knuckles. 

Tweek releases the Captain’s hand to reply. “Yes, but I don’t kiss and tell,” she mumbles with a grin, “...Come here.”

Reaching up, into the darkness, the blonde fumbles to wrap her arms around Cristine’s shoulders before pressing light kisses along her jawline. Before the taller woman allows herself to be pulled down, she slots herself between Tweek’s thighs, and hooks pale, trembling legs over her hips before plucking at the top button of the blonde’s shirt.

One after the next, with each button, the cold air creeps over Tweek’s skin, soothed by the occasional wandering brush of Cristine’s hands; the last button is undone, the white shirt is fanned open, and the shorter woman lays there, panting. Then slowly--torturously slowly--the noirette’s lips trace a wet path from her earlobe, to the column of her throat, to the jut of muscle between her shoulder and neck, before she lightly sinks her teeth in. Fingernails lightly rake over Tweek’s pale skin, from her bellybutton to the lower tip of her sternum, and Cristine traces the undersides of the shorter woman’s breasts, scratching light lines along her ribs before palming her left tit.

Laughter rushes over the blonde’s ear when she keens and arches her spine in response to all the teasing. “You have the loveliest voice, Tweek,” the taller woman whispers.

Tweek coils her legs around the Captain’s waist, dragging her in, and whines when the hand on her breast starts slowly groping and kneading. She’s already so wet that the cotton shorts are soaked--the fabric sticks to her uncomfortably, but she’s too distracted to try and remove them. It’s easier to just focus on the nips being delivered to her collarbones, easier to lose herself in the hand that starts massaging and squeezing her in earnest. Cristine starts sucking dark marks across the blonde’s chest as she feels up her right tit, and chuckles when Tweek’s trembling fingers lay over her wrists. The shorter woman presses the Captain’s hands down--a silent request to go _harder_ \--and the noirette sits up taller. There's a hand on each breast, long, tanned fingers spread over her sensitive skin, groping roughly, massaging each tender mound of flesh, until Tweek is twitching her hips against nothing, breathing rapidly, and pressing her heels against the taller woman’s back.

Cristine releases her with both hands, and the shorter woman starts to protest. It’s when a curious finger, _and nothing more_ , nudges against her left nipple that Tweek allows herself to go limp again, thighs falling open. She lightly arches up into the noirette’s touch, and utters little mewling sounds of approval when those dexterous digits begin pinching and rolling the hardened nubs on her chest. Tweek can’t help but giggle dizzily when the taller woman grabs each nipple, twists them lightly, tugs them up until the blonde’s breasts lift with them, and finally releases both nubs, allowing the shorter woman’s tits to drop with a minute jiggle. “What’re you doing?” she asks Cristine, more amused than anything else. 

“What does it look like?” is the Captain’s response, “Playing with your tits. It’s more fun when they’re small like this,” she adds before squeezing them roughly again. 

“Why is small more-” Tweek starts, but her voice breaks into a startled cry of pleasure when lips seal around her right nipple. While Cristine idly sucks at the nub between her lips, her now-free right hand trails a feather-light path over her stomach. She caresses the insides of the blonde’s thighs with the back of her hand, and swipes her middle finger over the damp fabric between the shorter woman’s legs.

Even through the shorts, Cristine’s touch feels electric. Tweek tilts her hips up, trembling in anticipation as a pointed tongue flicks repeatedly over her nipple. 

...And she doesn’t even humor her by going straight for the gold. No, the noirette just braces the heel of her palm against that wet spot and firmly rubs at trembling, heated flesh through a stupid excuse for pajama bottoms. With a growl of frustration, Tweek crosses her thighs over the taller woman’s hand and ruts shamelessly against her fingers until Cristine releases the blonde’s nipple with a pop. 

“Look at you,” she croons, slipping her hand out from between the shorter woman’s legs. “So eager…” She smooths her palm over the blonde’s stomach while switching nipples, and Tweek squeaks when Cristine simultaneously starts nibbling and whips the shorts off of her trembling hips. 

Tweek cradles the noirette’s head against her chest, and gasps as fingertips trace the seams of her hips before a palm goes back to obnoxiously rubbing the _outside_ of her cunt. 

“Hey. Stop messing around,” she whispers harshly against the Captain’s ear.

“As you wish,” Cristine murmurs with a dark chuckle. She bites down on the nipple in her mouth _hard_ and sinks her middle finger in up to the knuckle all in the span of a single second. Tweek shrieks, toes curling and spine bowing off the bed as her cry melts into a drawn-out moan.

This time, the noirette doesn’t slow to a stop. Her lips skim from one tit to the other, kissing, licking and sucking along the way, until she nibbles on the shorter woman’s other peaked nub; her middle finger pistons idly, curling and twisting, before briefly withdrawing. A shiver passes through Tweek’s body when the fingers between her legs start stroking and circling her clit. Another stop, then two fingers press in, pushing deeper, before probing around. The blonde utters a shaky moan as they press into _that spot_ , and Cristine sits upright. Cold air passes over the shorter woman’s damp nipples, and she twitches when she feels the Captain’s heated gaze pass over her bare body. It’s quiet, save for their panting. Then the noirette starts rhythmically pumping her fingers.

“...Hear that?” she asks, working her digits in with an obscene squelch. The puckering sound that comes when she pulls back makes Tweek feel like her face must be on fire. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman get this wet,” Cristine purrs. The blonde can just barely make out the taller woman’s defined arms, the swell of her breasts, which _yes_ , make Tweek’s look small, and, finally, the incredibly suggestive look on her face. She realizes those green eyes are fixed on one spot, and covers her own face in reflexive embarrassment.

Cristine watches her fingers smoothly disappear into the shorter woman’s cunt, and slowly picks up speed before pulling out completely. With one hand, she spreads soaking folds of trembling skin, with the other, she starts rubbing at Tweek’s fully exposed clit. Each slip of heated flesh makes the little nub throb, and the blonde grips the blankets around her for dear life. “I wonder…” Cristine ponders while running a fingertip from the back of the shorter woman’s slit to the front before pressing on the aching organ with her thumb. Tweek’s mind whites out while the Captain whispers in her ear. “Do you think we could fit three?”

Wordlessly, the blonde spreads her legs. One finger sinks into her, retreats, reenters with a second; the pair fan and scissor, retreat again, and Tweek gasps loudly when Cristine pushes three digits as deep as she can get them. “Mm,” the noirette hums, leaning back to watch her own handiwork. “You’re not even wet anymore. You’re _dripping_ ,” she comments, voice a little tight.

Over the slick sounds of being finger-fucked into oblivion, Tweek can hear something else. A slightly more muted wet sound, and Cristine’s shaky breath; the blonde props herself up on her elbows and peers down. 

Yep. While the noirette jabs her fingers into Tweek, she curls a finger--which seems to be coated in the shorter woman’s slickness--into herself. Before the blonde can comment or acknowledge what she’s seeing, Cristine begins stroking her clit with her thumb _while_ her fingers are still exploring the blonde’s insides. And the show might as well be over. A well-timed stroke, thrust, and roll later, and Tweek finds herself shaking apart in the taller woman’s hands.

...But Cristine keeps pumping. Slower this time, but she doesn’t stop. Pants of exhaustion slowly ramp back up into pleasured gasps, Tweek’s twitching from the overstimulation gives way to a desperate rolling motion, and the shorter woman finds herself approaching a second peak.

Suddenly, the blonde finds herself being yanked upright. A leg crosses between her own, there’s a tangle of limbs, and Cristine tugs Tweek around until they’re in a new position. It’s hard to tell what it is, exactly, in the darkness. The blonde can feel her left shin resting against the taller woman’s abdomen, her right knee pushing firmly into the mattress near Cristine’s ass. She settles a little and goes stiff as a board. She’s straddling…

_That._ Tweek blinks a few times and looks around. Below her, the noirette is laying on her back, arms folded behind her head, hips tilted up and thighs angled wide enough for the shorter woman to ride her groin. Her dark hair is a mess against the pillows, her sculpted abs twitch, and her brown nipples are peaked. 

_Dammit, you’re not allowed to look that sexy, it’s cheating._

A knowing grin plays on Cristine’s lips before she whispers “Go on.”

With a shivery sigh, the blonde reaches down and spreads both herself and the Captain wide before letting herself sink a little further.

“Oh,” Tweek practically wheezes, overwhelmed by the heated throbbing between her legs. She tentatively rocks her hips forward and nearly falls over. “ _Oh_ ,” she echoes, grinding herself down into Cristine’s cunt.

It’s wet, and hot, and messy, and Tweek can feel each of their respective heartbeats through that one point of contact. Cristine nudges her hips up, bouncing the blonde. “C’mon, move,” she encourages, breathing shallowly. With a hard swallow, the shorter woman grips the noirette’s left thigh and begins slowly rutting against her. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Cristine suddenly groans, and Tweek’s face heats up when she feels the Captain’s clit twitch against her. She picks up the pace, sets a rolling motion with her hips, and throws her head back when the noirette below her starts moving in turn. 

_There-_

A fresh wave of wetness seeps between them when Tweek finally manages to slot herself perfectly between the taller woman’s thighs. Suddenly it’s clit-against-clit and the blonde is rabbiting her hips like she’ll die if she stops moving. Cristine’s whispering a long, growly stream of praise, Tweek’s tremulous whimpering occasionally breaks into a high-pitched moan or expletive, and the shorter woman gives one final jerk before there’s an overflow of bodily fluids and she _does_ fall over, body set alight. Cristine doesn’t even give her a chance to bathe in the afterglow--she just seizes her thighs, yanks her back in, and grinds brutally until Tweek cums a third time, and the noirette follows soon after. 

They lay there, a panting mess of tangled legs, until Tweek groggily sits up. Cristine sits up too, and they stare at each other.

Wordlessly, the Captain takes the forgotten tricorn hat from the edge of the bed, lightly slaps it onto the blonde’s head, and begins sorting out pillows and blankets so they can actually sleep. Tweek snickers, tracing the brim of the dark hat seated firmly on her head.

Between the food, the bath, the cannabis, and the sex, Tweek is _tired_ . Happy and lighter than air, but _exhausted_. Cristine pulls the straightened quilt back, and pats the mattress. With a sleepy grin, the blonde crawls into the empty spot, still wearing an unbuttoned shirt and the taller woman’s hat. “Hope you enjoyed that, because you’re learning how to do the work of a sailor tomorrow,” Cristine whispers.

  
Tweek pulls her down until the noirette is curled up next to her and presses a kiss against the taller woman’s forehead. “I look forward to it, _Captain_ .” Cristine rolls her eyes and tugs the blanket up. The galleon rocks gently as the _daughter of an entrepreneur_ -turned- _pirate_ falls asleep in the arms of a woman.

**Author's Note:**

> Physically, I am here. Mentally, I'm peeling potatoes on a boat and chugging grog in the 1800's. 😔✌️


End file.
